A Series

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Cultish.

Saturday I waited for the Canal streetcar to take me downtown. Usually whilst I wait, I have nothing to watch but traffic. Not true on Saturday. There was a man standing near my stop with posterboards. He wore a stocking cap, a fumanchu, and an orange county choppers tshirt. The first poster had an arrow and said "Cult this way." As I approached the streetcar stop, I was a little concerned I would be solicited to join a cult, and maybe kidnapped, and forced to call someone "master." The 'Cult this way' sign didn't seem to be a very effective measure of recruitment, if you asked me (which he didn't) because I found it unlikely that someone would turn their car down a side street to hunt down the meeting place of this obscure cult.

The next sign read, "HONK IF YOU HATE SCIENTOLOGY." This confused me even more. Was his cult a rivalling Scientology? Several cars honked. Mr. Fumanchu crossed back and forth between the boulevard waving the sign at the traffic. Finally I saw the Scientology office across the street. His signs made sense then. I must admit I was a little disappointed that he wasn't advertising his own cult. :-/


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Dinner.

My roommate and her friend went out for oysters that evening. None of us had ever had one, and since Chrissy and I celebrate the days of our birth in December and her friend was leaving town, we agreed oysters would be a perfect way to celebrate.

We ordered an appetizer of charbroiled oysters, and were looking at the other oyster options. "OOooh, oyster shooters!" Kristen said. "Let's get one." Fine. Let's get oyster shooters when there are no descriptions of what they are. I assumed that they were raw oysters on the half shell. It made sense to me.

I was a little thrown when the waiter asked how old we were (No one ever asks for your i.d. down here, just how old you are). "I didn't know you had to be a certain age to eat oysters," I said. "Maybe it's because they're natural aphrodisiacs."

WRONG.

The waiter brought oyster shooters for the three of us. My stomach flipped. It was a shotglass with orange, brown, and clear. "Oh no. This can't be good." And it really wasn't. How do you gulp down vodka, oyster, and cocktail sauce? It is very difficult. I almost didn't make it. It was the most painful thing I've ever put in my mouth, even worse than the goldfish I was dared to swallow in college. Even at this moment, I still feel squeamish about that shooter.

Let us speak of this no more.

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Bears Game.

I haven't watched any Bears games since I've moved to N.O. I know full well that I could go to a bar and watch the game by myself and meet other Chicago fans, but that just has little to no appeal to me. I looked forward to December 11 since I found out in September that was the date of the Saints/Bears game.

My friend Caitlyn picked me up. We were going to watch the game at my favorite local establishment, Finn McCools. "What is that?" Her voice pointed in disgust at my hat.

"A Bears hat."

"Molly, this is New Orleans."

"I know. And I'm a Bears fan."

"I'm not walking into the bar with you."

I got looks from strangers as I made my way through the bar. "Are you really from Chicago?" someone asked. "And they still served you?"

Our friends had seats at a table underneath the tv. There place was crowded and there were no more stools left...Leaving me to stand directly underneath the tv. The man next to me kept shouting at the tv. Then he'd look at me. Then he'd shout at the tv. On commercial breaks, he would tell me just exactly what the Bears were doing to foul it up for the Saints. After several beers, his anger at the Bears started to melt, and he started to hit on me.

"Uh, your girl sent me over here to talk to you. She said you liked me."

"Oh she did? I don't think she did." Caitlyn and I had just finished a conversation about how he was staring at me, and how I was not interested in the least.

"Yeah, she said she knows you real well, and that you would want to talk to me."

"Uh, I don't think so."

"Yeah."

"Well....I have a boyfriend."

"Why would she do this to me?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Well, now I feel stupid."

(And I thought: good mission accomplished.) And after all of that, he bought me a beer, and we quit talking.

As the gamewent into overtime, everyone was biting nails. The Saints fans waited for the team to blow it, while I waited for the Bears to screw it up. After the game was over, I tried not to smile too big....But it was still a little too much because I got booed at on my way out of the bar.

I <3 Chicago.
(only two more days until the windy city....)